The Past
by Pingless
Summary: Sherlock decides to research John's past. Finally completed!
1. Chapter 1

"John."

"Sherlock."

"If I were to research your past, what would I find?"

"Not a lot. You can question my mum, but I doubt she will give you any particularly interesting details. We have lived in separate worlds since I was…seven."

John flipped through the morning newspaper nonchalantly while Sherlock regarded him for a second.

"You are a blogger…"

"Yes, I am, but I did not keep a diary," John flashed a toothy smile for a second, then returned to his paper.

"Hmmm," Sherlock thought for a second, "I presume that you are not a reliable source for any information regarding your past."

"I preferred dinosaurs to flying saucers. I wanted to become a veterinarian until age 12, then I was attacked by a dog and changed my mind. I could not stand milk."

"All lies, of course," Sherlock smiled, squinting at John. The doctor stayed cryptically silent.

"I will not drop it," Sherlock continued, on the same note, grabbing his phone from the table and starting to text.

"Eventually you'll be distracted by a case."

"I am on a case," Sherlock answered without looking up, "Two, actually. This is… a bit of a hobby."

"Oh," John smiled, "You are doing hobbies now?"

"Doesn't the violin qualify as a hobby?" Sherlock raised his eyebrow.

"It usually helps you think."

"You are right about that," Sherlock pocketed his phone, got up, and in an instant stood at the door, "I'll be late."

"I'll wait anxiously by the door," John mumbled as Sherlock descended the stairs.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock returned the next day with a two cardboard boxes of evidence, John thought.

"There are two more in the cab," Sherlock said and John sighed, quickly dashing onto the rainy street, toward the car.

Back in the flat Sherlock was hastily taking off his gloves and then opening the first box.

"Should I be worried about severed body parts?" John asked, warily regarding the boxes he was holding.

"You tell me," Sherlock said, in a low baritone, then held out something that looked like a record jacket.

"_The Queen is Dead," _John smiled, "Brilliant. We should listen to it sometime. 'Twas my favorite record at some point."

"So I see," Sherlock said, trailing his finger over a tattered edge of the record jacket.

"What do you…is that my record?" John hurried over to Sherlock, then peeked inside the box, "Where did you get this?"

"Your parents' house, obviously," Sherlock answered, then put the record on the table carefully and proceeded to dig into the box.

"How?" John said, putting his hand on Sherlock's and stopping him momentarily, "My mother does not even know who you are."

"I assured her that I was your close friend. All I had to do was disclose a few intimate details and she granted me full access to your old room. And the basement."

"Intimate details?"

Sherlock smiled. "Nothing remotely embarrassing. The way you like your tea. Your service in Afghanistan. The location of your scar," Sherlock touched John's shoulder lightly.

"Right," John took a step back, "Well, it was bound to happen. You can excavate all you want, I am sure you won't find anything intriguing."

John took a seat on the sofa, scratched his chin, and reached over for his novel.

"'Bound to happen'," Sherlock quoted, digging through the boxes, "Explain your phrasing."

"Hmmm?" John did his best to feign disinterest.

"You were always certain that I would develop a sufficient interest in your person to do a thorough research?" Sherlock looked at John briefly, then stared at the wall, "Oh, no. Of course not. You have not been to your parents' ever since we moved in together."

John watched Sherlock's mind expand from the sofa. "Of course it was bound to happen. Somebody, at some point, would come across the surviving relics of your past. You probably imagined it to be your future partner. And so you have been doing a bit of editing."

Sherlock took a seat next to John on the sofa, both of them staring at the boxes.

"You sit there disinterested," Sherlock continued, "Because you know exactly what I have got those boxes. Yet I think you are starting to worry because you did not quite foresee meeting me."

Sherlock slid closer to John and smiled, looking at his rigid face.

"And now the only thing you are thinking, _Have I been thorough enough_?"

John tried his hardest to swallow inaudibly, but Sherlock was already up and rummaging through the boxes again.

"The answer is, of course you weren't. And even if you were, I have got pictures."


	3. Chapter 3

Ever since Sherlock took an interest in John's past, their apartment had been littered with various objects that transported John back in time whenever he laid eyes on them. The records were not as bad; he'd listened to them for years and the memories were blurred. Yet some things – ticket stubs, scraps of paper, his ex-girlfriend's scarf - prickled him momentarily and brought back vivid, detailed recollections. He'd confiscated the scarf because Sherlock was twisting it in his hands and pushing his nose into it like a prize-winning sniffer, disregarding completely the emotional strain the thing had on John.

"Pink chiffon, hard to be more feminine than that," Sherlock noticed, letting his fingers trail over the scarf before John took it away from him.

"Yeah, well. She was, erm, feminine," John deposited the scarf on his lap, "Just try to be careful with stuff like that. It was my first serious girlfriend, I value it a lot."

"By deserting it at your parents' house in the dustiest corner of your closet, yes," Sherlock noticed offhandedly, stretching his long arm over the back of the couch. John noticed that it almost reached the back of his neck.

"I went to Afghanistan," John tried, but Sherlock was already regarding him with a smile in his eyes.

"Funny, I thought people took things like that with them on long hard journeys."

John opened his mouth to protest, but no argument was sufficient enough for Sherlock.

"I presume she sprayed it with her perfume," Sherlock said, twisting his body slightly to face John, "You could have wrapped it around your chest when going into particularly dangerous battles. A whiff of her smell in the midst of action – to give you a glimpse of normalcy once in a while. You are a liar, John," Sherlock whispered.

"Well, I…"

"…For telling me you preferred dinosaurs to flying saucers."

John turned his head quickly just to look at Sherlock who was holding a stack of drawings made by John when he was ten or eleven.

"_Dad and I went to the field today and watched the stars and I was allowed to stay up until one it was brilliant," _Sherlock read from one of the papers, "_Although we didn't see any aliens but next time maybe." _

John stared at his drawings for a second before getting up and bursting into laughter.

"I am caught, aren't I? Sorry Sherlock, I lied to you, I do fancy aliens more than dinosaurs," he became harsher in an instant, "And the scarf – she dumped me, all right? Right before I left, a week actually, she came by and said that she couldn't do it, she couldn't do a long distance relationship."

"But you kept…"

"And I kept the scarf," John pointed to the thing, then to Sherlock, "Because I understood her. Because I am not a sociopath."

For a minute both of the men stayed silent.

"Right, that felt good," John stretched and ruffled his hair, "Tea?"

"Please."

John gave Sherlock a curt nod and walked toward the kitchen. "Don't," he said sharply, without turning around, and Sherlock had no choice but to jerk his hand away from the scarf.

The thing remained on the couch for a long time.


	4. Chapter 4

_Dear Mr. Holmes, _

_Your unexpected (but lovely) visit has awakened a feeling of nostalgia. For the past week I have been going through the family albums; I have come across a picture of John I haven't seen in a while (it was tucked in behind another – I wouldn't have discovered it if it weren't for you!). I am sending you a copy of it. Please don't tell John I sent it – he gets awfully irritable when I talk about his past. Wouldn't you believe, when he was about 20 he went in and destroyed every picture of him taken after the age of 12. Thankfully this one remains intact. _

_Hope this finds you well, _

_Mrs. Watson_

In a few clicks Sherlock was staring at a large image of John when he was about 16 or 17. Despite the fact that the colors were off and it was a little grainy, Sherlock could make out John leaning against a tree with his arms crossed. The t-shirt he was wearing was quite tight, and riding up a little to reveal a bit of skin. His pants were grass-stained, suggesting a long day out. On the ground beside him – the shadow of a crouching photographer; a man, Sherlock noticed, and definitely not a teenager.

Back in the present Sherlock lay down on his bed to think. Surrounding him were the pieces of John's past laid out in no particular order; his toys mixed in with exam preparation books and various pieces of paper from all ages. Sherlock closed his eyes; tried to picture the face of 12-yeard-old Johnny transforming into 16-yeard old John. He trailed his fingers over the bed sheets, trying to imagine the way that grass felt against John's skin on that day. He thought he heard distant laughter and voices; in a moment he was falling asleep, and John detached himself from the tree and ran from him, turning back and laughing. Sherlock followed him, but in a moment remembered about the photographer. All he needed to do was turn around and see his face.

"There it is, I knew it."

Sherlock woke with a start to find present-time John standing over him.

"Sorry I woke you, just needed the laptop," he said, smiling down at Sherlock crookedly, "Crikey, this is like walking into my room."

"You had destroyed eight years worth of photographs," Sherlock blurted out.

"Well, you know. Didn't want anyone to see my hairstyle," John shrugged and left the room.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock was greeted with a faint "Morning" from the kitchen and the sound of tea being poured. He gave a curt not, although John could not see him; then stretched on the couch, closing his eyes and pushing his palms together against his chin and lips.

In a minute or two John sauntered into the living room with a cup in his hand.

"I see we are napping in full livery," he said, and Sherlock detected a smile in his voice.

"Not napping," Sherlock answered, evenly, "Thinking."

"Oh, sorry, didn't know we had a case," John went back to the kitchen and, judging by the scraping sounds, was trying to get the last bit of jam for his toast.

"Not a case," Sherlock said, "Strictly speaking."

Soon John was back and crunching away on his favorite chair. Despite the fact that Sherlock's eyes were closed he was able to see John's face in his mind very clearly; he concentrated on making sure that it was the exact copy.

It was rather nice, looking at John without the threat of being presumed strange. Strangely, Sherlock's limbs relaxed to the point where he did not feel his fingers and toes, and his chest felt light; in addition his breathing was becoming slightly erratic. He was looking at John in his mind without any constraint, and it felt strangely voyeuristic.

"Are you still digging through my past then?" John asked, and his copy in Sherlock's imagination put down the toast and met Sherlock's direct gaze.

"Yes. I am thinking of you," Sherlock said, and above his ear there was a good-natured snicker. The second John was quite serious, however.

"I told you, you won't find anything important," the real John said, but his playful manner became quite stern in Sherlock's addled mind.

_Open your eyes_, Sherlock thought; he knew that if he did just that the image would dissipate and he would return to reality. He longed to stay, however, and in his mind he was moving toward John.

"But I admit that your attention is quite…flattering," the real John said, his voice a little muffled, and Sherlock's ghostly hand reached out to rest lightly on John's imaginary knee.

"I mean, here you are obsessing, in full dress, about something that did not happen, and you have been doing so for at least a week," John said, and the image in Sherlock's mind disappeared completely, replaced by the red of his eyelids and a slight ringing in his ears.

_Something that did not happen_, he murmured, his fingers tracing circles on the fabric of the couch.

"Oh well, keeps you from getting bored, I suppose," John said, getting up, and Sherlock heard the clutter of dishes in the sink.

"Off to work," John called out and left. Sherlock's mind clang to him as he descended the stairs and exited through the front door, then walked a couple of block with that rigid gait of his. It is bright today, Sherlock thought, remembering a glimpse of the newspaper he'd seen on the table, and in his mind John's faced lit up in sharp contrast.

John was now just passing Regent's Park; the name of the placed conjured up multiple images, one of them particularly important, and as John walked on Sherlock concentrated on the park for a second.

Regent's Park, and it was on the same bright day as today; and quite recent. The picture then, John's picture. What was he doing so far from home?

Something else was out of the place in that picture, Sherlock remembered. Something in the way John held himself, a certain rigidity that put a strain on his shoulders. Sherlock imagined himself standing on the grass, watching John pose, and trying to ignore the shadowy figure by his side.

He did not know how much time it took him, but the realization hit him with an undeniable clarity.

"The shirt," he said, opening his eyes and getting up quickly.


	6. Chapter 6

The shirt's cut was curious. Just the right fit in the shoulders, but it seemed at least an inch too short, riding up and revealing a bit of John's skin. The trousers, too, upon the second inspection, revealed a few unsettling details. Certainly tight, emphasizing John's figure, and matching the shirt perfectly well (despite the grass stains); it sufficed to say that John looked rather dashing. And yet, despite everything, he seemed uncomfortable and unsure of himself, shielding himself with his arms; the look on his face, however, suggested a challenge.

Sherlock allowed his finger to briefly brush the outline of John's torso. The skin on the picture looked pasty and white, tender and buttery; John might have assumed a defiant pose, but Sherlock could sense his hesitant, tentative nature. To Sherlock's great annoyance, the photographer seemed to see it as well; it was easy to imagine his grin as he was taking the picture.

Sherlock traced his way up John's chest and noticed writing on the shirt; almost faded away, but still discernable. Fetching a magnifying glass from the pile of tools Sherlock returned to the photograph, holding his breath briefly before he focused on the writing. It seemed to be a logo of some sort.

"_Morgan's Goods_," Sherlock read aloud, and sat back. There was certainly something familiar about the name.

"Sherlock, are you in?"

Sherlock quickly snatched the photograph off the table and put it in the inner pocket of his jacket. A moment later John appeared, holding two bags of groceries.

"Oh," he said softly, but quickly regained his composure, "I didn't expect you to be in, actually."

"My coat is on the hanger by the door," Sherlock said, not moving a muscle to help John.

"Sorry, I was a tad busy with _these_," John said, hauling the bags onto the table, purposely smashing some equipment.

"_These_ do not interfere with your sight," Sherlock noticed and got up, leaning his hip against the table slightly.

"I was seeing red because my roommate, who was several feet away, was not helping me," John said, watching Sherlock closely.

"But you assumed I was out," Sherlock said softly, reveling in John's attention, "Jam goes into the top cupboard on the left."

John looked at the jar in his hand, "Sorry, I was…I assumed you were doing something? You do not get up without a reason."

Without an answer Sherlock reached for the jar in John's hand and promptly placed it in the cupboard.

"Right," John said, watching Sherlock's movements, "I was actually thinking that we could go out tonight?"

"Out?" Sherlock faced him again.

"_Angelo's_," John supplied quickly, "I feel like going out. Mostly I don't feel like cooking."


	7. Chapter 7

_Angelo's_ was not busy. John settled on his regular with a hum and closed the menu after a second or so. He drummed his fingers on the table briefly, then decided it was time to go into his caring mode. Sherlock watched him closely.

"You are not eating?" John said, and Sherlock's mouth twitched into a brief smile.

"You are having your regular, why can't I?"

"Clever," John nodded, looking out the window briefly. Sherlock watched his face.

"Not so caring then," Sherlock said deliberately softly, and John turned to him with questioning eyes.

"What was that?"

"You seem to have forgotten that I have not eaten in two days," Sherlock noticed.

"Ah, well, I have seen you go four without a bite, you should be fine," John said and Sherlock almost chuckled.

"Perhaps we should have some wine," Sherlock said, and in an instant the waiter appeared by the table, filling two glasses.

"When did you…"

"Phoned the restaurant while you were finishing with the groceries," Sherlock said, reaching for his glass.

"And why…" John looked at him, deep in thought, "You want me tipsy."

"Drunk," Sherlock corrected.

"So you wanted to make me drink on an empty stomach. Fine. I presume my food will be late as well?"

"Naturally."

John looked around the restaurant.

"We are the only table without breadsticks," he said, looking at Sherlock again, "So, what's the plan? I get drunk and tell you everything about my past?"

"That's the plan."

"Well then," John said, bringing his glass to his lips, "You are in for a very boring evening."

"I highly doubt…" Sherlock began, but was interrupted.

"Lestrade!" John called, and Sherlock turned around to find that the detective was indeed entering the restaurant.

"You did not tell me Lestrade was coming," Sherlock sighed, turning to look at John.

"To be honest I expected you to deduce it before we left the flat. Something else on your mind?" John winked, before getting up and greeting the detective.

It was not a completely crushing development; the first bottle of wine was finished before food arrived, and John was positively ruddy. Sherlock made his first glass last the whole evening, carefully watching John and letting him dominate the conversation. At first the doctor gave him knowing smiles, but soon he was too tipsy to keep up with the game.

It was nice to watch John uninhibited, Sherlock mused, settling comfortably in his seat. Tomorrow will be a blur for the doctor; he certainly won't remember Sherlock's searching eyes. Sherlock's foot slid closer to John's, and their knees brushed whenever the doctor turned to look at Lestrade.

"So," Lestrade was saying, jokingly, "Have you introduced Sherlock to your parents yet?"

"Parents," John laughed, closing his eyes, "If my father knew Sherlock – if he'd seen the bloke I was living with – he'd certainly have an aneurysm."

Lestrade laughed, tipsy himself, but Sherlock latched on to John.

"Why?" Sherlock asked, "Your mother seemed to like me."

"I bet my father was not in when you came 'round," John said, still smiling.

"True. Did you have some sort of falling out with your father?"

"'Falling out,'" John laughed, "The man hates me."

"Why?"

"I think I need to go home," John said, pressing his hands against his face, "We all need to go home."

The evening was not completely useless then, Sherlock thought, as John leaned heavily against him as they entered 221 Baker St. There was the unattractive smell of alcohol on John's breath, but there was also the streetlight illuminating his features, smoothing over his face and tangling in his hair. John was watching Sherlock with his lips parted and his hip heavy against the detective, and Sherlock was instantly reminded of the photograph pressed against his chest.

"Why wouldn't your father like me?" Sherlock asked quietly, looking at John.

John seemed confused at first, but in a second he was himself, and moving to lean against the wall instead of Sherlock.

"Bed," John breathed, "I need to go to bed."


	8. Chapter 8

_September 23, 1991_

_**Shop Owner Killed in a Break-In **_

_Morgan Smith, 33, was found dead in his clothing shop _Morgan's Goods_ located on Hampstead Road, near Regent's Park. The police maintains that Mr. Smith was attacked an hour after closing time and beaten with a blunt object. The shop's windows were smashed and a number of goods were destroyed; at this point it is uncertain whether anything was stolen. Anyone who has any information about the break-in is urged to contact the police._

There were a few more small articles about _Morgan's Goods_ in online archives, but they did not provide more information. Sherlock gathered that there were no witnesses and no one was apprehended; even though nothing was stolen, the police treated the case as if it were a regular burglary.

Taking out his mobile he quickly sent a text ("Please look into _Morgan's Goods _case for me. September 1991 – SH") and left the flat.

Assuming that _Morgan's Goods_ case had something to do with John was a huge leap, but it was the only lead available to Sherlock. He strode quickly along the streets, his collar up, his hot breath moistening it; he was trying to find all the connections between John and Morgan Smith. There was the shirt, of course, and presumably the trousers; the break-in also occurred in 1991, when John was 16 or 17, the same age he appeared to be on the photograph. There was, too, the established fact that John has censored his past, possibly destroying more valuable evidence. Perhaps visiting Hampstead Road would provide more information.

Sherlock found the place rather quickly; the sign was taken down and there were boards instead of windows. Luckily, Sherlock thought, no one has established a new business here; perhaps, too, the police did not completely destroy all the evidence inside.

In a few minutes he managed to find a way in through the back door and he was greeted with a small empty space, dust floating in the light that filtered in through the cracks in boards. There was a door to the left that led, Sherlock presumed, to the owner's office; nothing special, other than that.

His phone chirped.

"_Morgan's Goods_," Lestrade said without a greeting, "At first I thought you were messing with me. A simple burglary case? But I see you have a point."

"What do you know?" Sherlock answered, scanning the shop for anything.

"I talked to a few people who were on the case. There are no official statements, but everyone seems to have a story about _Morgan's Goods_. Apparently the shop attracted a certain kind of clientele."

"Homosexuals," Sherlock supplied.

"No, well, not exactly. It's true. It was one of the few establishments that catered to the homosexual population. But that's not the point. Many here believe that the shop was a front."

"A front?" Sherlock asked. He noticed something that looked like a catalogue lying in a dusty corner and decided to take a look.

"Yes, a front. I have heard that Morgan Smith was not simply selling clothing," Lestrade was saying.

Sherlock picked up the catalogue and started leafing through it. The models were young men, perhaps even teenagers; it seemed that they were not professional, but simply customers and volunteers.

"People say that it was a popular place for young men to hang out and, of course, meet potential partners. It was quite innocent at first, but then Smith started introducing these teenagers to adult men. Adult men who allegedly invested in _Morgan's Goods_ for such an opportunity."

"You are talking about prostitution," Sherlock said.

"Right. Apparently Smith even published clothing booklets that were…well, prostitute booklets, really. They were delivered to subscriber's houses by regular mail. It was quite an airtight operation. So when Smith was killed the police heaved a sigh of relief – it seemed that the problem had resolved itself. The popular belief is that one of the young men decided to take revenge and bludgeoned Smith to death. Sherlock? Are you there?"

"Yes, sorry," Sherlock said, his voice a little uneven.

"Anyway, do you have any new leads on the case?" Lestrade asked.

"Not at the moment," Sherlock answered, ending the call, and staring at the catalogue. Staring back at him was John, in the copy of the same snapshot Sherlock kept in his inner pocket.


	9. Chapter 9

Thanks everyone for your great reviews. I don't write plot-heavy pieces often, so I really hope that I am managing to get all the details across. Your reactions help me understand whether I am clear enough, so please tell me if something seems odd.

* * *

Sherlock had collected the rest of the catalogues strewn around the shop when he noticed the office again. He hesitated going inside – lest he found anything else – but quickly regained his composure. The only certain thing he knew was that John used to be a volunteer model for a small London clothing shop in his teens; everything else was based on less than concrete evidence.

Not much remained of the office. A dusty table with a shabby chair; a small, boarded up window. There was, however, a boom box and a few tapes on the table; Sherlock instantly recognized _The Queen is Dead_, John's favorite.

Sherlock put the tape in the boom box, pushed _play_ and took a seat at the table. There was nothing but static for a couple of minutes. Sherlock closed his eyes and pictured John in his teens. It was easy – just remembering the photograph; he animated him in his mind, listening to the muffled sounds of cars outside and thinking that John, perhaps, had listened to the same sounds in the past.

Still, there was no music. Instead, there were some footsteps and the sound of a chair being scraped against the floor. Then someone's low, gruff voice.

_You had this coming, Watson_, the voice was saying, _now listen closely or we are going to have problems…_

It ended abruptly. Sherlock realized that the tape must have jammed and tried to fix it; his mobile interrupted him, however.

"I know you are going to give me a hard time for this, but I forgot my wallet at home," John said. Judging by the sounds, he was in a supermarket.

"I'll come up at once," Sherlock said, realizing he was a little breathless.

"Oh," John sounded surprised, "Well, that's good. I am at…"

"I know. I'll be there in 10 minutes."

"I didn't realize you were so close."

"I am."

Ten minutes later Sherlock spotted John in the jam isle; he leveled with him in a rush, looming over the doctor and looking intensely at him.

"Well, this is dramatic," John gave him a sidelong glance and dumped a jar of jam into his basket.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked, putting his hand on John's forearm and pulling him slightly closer.

"Oh," John looked down for a second and Sherlock thought he'd blushed, "Do you mean after _Angelo's_? I had bit too much, hadn't I? Sorry if I was embarrassing you. But I am all right. A bit of a headache in the morning – but it's gone now."

Sherlock let out a sigh and let his hand drop from John's forearm. There was a certain disconnect between the current John and the one he has been studying for some time now; it was unpleasant to think that his current investigation might affect his relationship with the doctor. They were standing close enough to turn a few heads; Sherlock searched John's eyes and thought that it was easy enough to give in to the doctor's charm and drop his investigation all together.

"Gooseberry," Sherlock finally said, peeking into the basket in John's hand, "Have you decided to diversify your jam experience?"

"Well, you can't be the only dramatic one in the flat," John said, grinning, "I know you hate shopping, so I have most of the things already."

They were out in 10 minutes and to John's astonishment Sherlock hailed a cab, dropped the groceries onto the backseat and paid extra to the driver.

"221 Baker Street," he said to the man, "Someone will answer the door."

"What if he never delivers them?" John protested.

"It's all right, he knows me," Sherlock said, closing the door and waiting for the cabbie to drive away, "I am taking half a day off and I fancy a walk."

"Is there something wrong?"

"Not at the moment. Will you come?"

"Gladly."


	10. Chapter 10

They ended up on a bench in Regent's Park, John shivering slightly in his thin jacket and Sherlock with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his coat. It felt strange, sitting there alone in the cold, and John tried to communicate wordlessly to every rare passerby that they were perfectly all right, if slightly odd. Sherlock seemed to only have eyes for the bleak sky.

"Winter mornings," John said authoritatively, "Are significantly better than late afternoons."

It did not break the ice, but at least Sherlock seemed to return to the present and his lips gave a little twitch.

"I have never heard of you taking time off, not when you are on a case," John tried.

"So you do admit that yours is a case," Sherlock mused.

"You have been on it for a while now," John said, rubbing his face with his hands, "I have to entertain the idea that you have found something. Furthermore, I have to face the fact that you have probably found something that I tried to conceal for a long time."

Sherlock stayed silent and John let out a painful breath.

"I was going to come to you, at some point, but on my own terms. I have never imagined that you would be curious about me, and that you would go to such great lengths," John hesitated for a second, "And I am yet to learn what you have found out."

"I know about Morgan Smith," Sherlock said and John hid his face in his hands. It seemed as if a wave of feelings washed over him and he almost could not contain himself. Sherlock observed, looking lost, not sure how to react.

"I've found this," Sherlock took the tape out of his pocket and held it awkwardly in his hand, "I haven't listened to it in its entirety."

John looked over and took the tape carefully from Sherlock. He pocketed it and nodded; the next time he spoke, his voice was significantly lower.

"Do you know what happened to Morgan Smith?"

"I know that he was killed in September 1991."

"Is that all?"

"Yes."

"Sherlock, I am going to ask you to do something for me," John said, avoiding eye contact with Sherlock, "I know it is going to be hard for you, but I need this. Please stop your investigation. I promise that I will come to you with my story once I am ready; right now, though, I have to deal with a few demons from my past."

John finally answered Sherlock's gaze.

"You said you were going to come to me," Sherlock said, still looking John in the eye, "Why?"

"I had… plans," John said, blushing and looking away.

"Plans," Sherlock repeated, his chest expanding from feeling.

"Yes, well," John said, chuckling, "This is a topic for another occasion. Right now I need you to promise me that you will stop your investigation."

"Do you think it is for the best?"

"Yes."

"Then I promise."


	11. Chapter 11

"_So when were you going to tell me that John is mixed up in the _Morgan's Goods_ case?" Lestrade asked._

"_Is he?" Sherlock feigned mild surprise. _

"_Of course he is, and you knew it. I suppose you've got a copy of the catalogue? You must know that I at least need to question him." _

"_You don't," Sherlock answered, "I have questioned John myself and he does not know anything important." _

"_Look, you know I trust you, but I can't just look the other way. If you want to take the case yourself, please do so; if not, I will have to launch a police investigation." _

It was, Sherlock thought, a perfect excuse to continue his work. Despite a feeling of unease, he already knew his next step; he immediately took a train to the suburbs to visit the Watson home.

"Mr. Holmes," Mrs. Watson said, astonished, "I certainly did not expect to see you."

"I wish to speak with Mr. Watson, I understand he is home," Sherlock said, gesturing to the car parked in front of the house.

"He is, but you have to leave," she said, trying to close the door in great haste, but Sherlock held it with his hand.

"Who is it?" a man's voice asked from the depth of the house and Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at Mrs. Watson.

"Just a canvasser, dear, I'll deal with him," she said and stepped outside, closing the door behind her, "Does John know you are here?"

"No," Sherlock said and felt genuine remorse, "But I have to know the truth."

Mrs. Watson's gaze softened and Sherlock felt that she was considering her options.

"You are such a handsome young man," Mrs. Watson said, deep in thought, "And you genuinely seem to care about him. Perhaps John will understand me. Meet me in Main St. café in half an hour and I'll tell you all I know. Mind, it is not much."

Sherlock spent the next half an hour locating the café and having a cup of acrid coffee, staring out the window at the almost-deserted street and ignoring the furtive looks of the servers. When Mrs. Watson showed up and took a seat opposite of him, he had to remember that she was John's mother and it was not prudent to fully launch himself at her.

"I appreciate your patience," she said, as the waitress filled her cup of coffee, "It must be hard for you."

"Please tell me everything you know. Do not skip any details, however minute."

"As I said, it is not much, but it is more than John thinks," she chuckled good-naturedly, "He probably thinks that I am blind, but I know my son. He was always a warm-hearted, handsome boy, and it pains me to think that someone might have taken advantage of that."

"I knew that he was different from about the age of 12 and it was painful to see him retreat into himself slowly but surely over the years. His father knew too, I think; after the first suspicions he stopped communicating with the boy and once John became a teenager they had an open conflict about an unspoken problem. I thought it was best to give John his freedom…that's why I was happy for him when he started going to the city. He said he'd met some friends, and I thought to myself that, perhaps, he had met someone special. It surely seemed so – he always returned happy, and it seemed like he was in love."

"Anyway, this went on for a while and I think that his father started to guess what was going on in John's life. He tried to restrict his trips to the city, but John would sneak out anyway. I sided with John, at first, giving him money for the trips and even talking to his father, but now I wonder whether he was right, whether I should have met his friends, known what was going on…"

She stopped momentarily, looking out the window.

"Well, one night John returned home and it was apparent that he was attacked," she said, her voice muffled a little, "He said that he had gotten into a fight on the train and I believed him. The whole week he was quiet…forlorn, I'd say. Then the weekend came. He left as usual, but he returned in the middle of the night. There was…blood on his shirt and he looked scared. I could not get him to tell me what happened, and he made me promise that I would not talk the police."

"This happened in September," Sherlock said, seemingly unmoved by her story.

"It did," she said, eyeing him warily, "How do you know that?"

"I must ask you for the same thing John did, Mrs. Watson. If anybody from the police contacts you, please do not talk to them."


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock returned to Baker St. with a heavy heart and an unanswered text from Lestrade (_I know you've been to the Watsons' – awaiting a detailed report_.) John was not in yet, and Sherlock settled on the couch, not bothering with the lights; it was getting dark already, although it was barely five, and Sherlock remembered John's comment about winter afternoons.

John came in a couple of hours later and shuddered from surprise when he noticed Sherlock in the dark.

"How ominous," he smiled, flicking on the lights and assessing the situation, "You've been out. Probably working, judging by your appearance. But you are back early… so the case was easy? Never mind, you can tell me over dinner."

Sherlock watched as John walked into the kitchen and deposited a plastic bag filled with food containers on the table.

"Sorry if lo-mein is too prosaic for you," John smiled, getting out the plates, "I thought we could have dinner together, to regain a degree of normality."

John waited a little after his last comment before stopping and turning toward Sherlock.

"Something is going on," he said, his voice careful.

"Lestrade wanted me to continue on with your case…" Sherlock began and John raised a hand to stop him.

"No," John shook his head, "You wanted to continue on with my case. Lestrade was simply following a protocol."

"I am not sorry," Sherlock said, although he sounded tentative, "There was always a possibility that the police would uncover new evidence. We need to cover your tracks."

"Cover my tracks," John repeated in an even tone.

"Yes. That's why I need to know the whole truth. If we work quickly we can close this case in a matter of days and you will be in the clear."

"In the clear?" John asked and grimaced when he saw that Sherlock was exasperated, "What do you think happened exactly?"

"John," Sherlock said, locking eyes with his flat mate, "I know that you were one of the young men fooled by Morgan Smith. I know that you had a confrontation with him, after which he probably threatened you; and I know that on the night he was killed you hastily returned home with something that looked like blood on your clothing."

Having finished, Sherlock watched patiently as John took a seat, obviously thinking about an appropriate response.

"You think I killed him," John said, and Sherlock felt that something was wrong.

"It seems like the most logical conclusion."

"Where did you get all of your information?"

"Your mother gave me your photo that…that was used in the catalogue," Sherlock began, "Lestrade contacted some men who were on the case and they told him about the purpose of the catalogues. I visited the shop myself and found the tape I gave you; and today I persuaded your mother to tell me about the time you were acquainted with Smith."

"You took my life apart after promising that you would stop," John said, staring off into space.

"We can deal with this later. Right now we need to decide what to do next."

"I didn't kill him," John said, giving a heavy-hearted chuckle, "I am surprised that you base such a grave accusation on such flimsy facts. Why are you so sure that Morgan Smith was using me?"

"That was the prevailing opinion among the police officers who were on the case."

"The prevailing opinion among the police officers around you is that you are a freak and a potential criminal," John retorted, "Why do you think Morgan threatened me?"

"There was a clear threat on the tape."

"The tape," John laughed, "You said yourself that you haven't listened to it in its entirety."

"I made an inference based on the information available to me."

"Here," John threw the tape on Sherlock's lap, getting up, "I think you should correct your inference."

* * *

With luck I will update in a day or so - I am quite sure that the next chapter is going to be the last. As always, thank you for your reviews and I hope that you will not be disappointed.


	13. Chapter 13

As before, the tape began with footsteps and sounds of someone preparing to record a message. Sherlock listened closely, sitting on the floor of his room; although it was highly improbable that he missed something before, it was important to start at the beginning. He waited patiently for the message to start.

"You had this coming, Watson," Smith said finally, "Now listen closely or we are going to have problems."

Sherlock waited for the rest of the threat, but nothing followed, at least nothing that he thought was relevant; a song started to play instead, a man singing accompanied by an acoustic guitar.

_Honey love you, honey little, honey funny sunny morning…_

"Syd Barett," John said and Sherlock turned around to see him leaning against the doorframe, "It's called _Love You_ and it is from his 1970 album _The Madcap Laughs_."

"You were lovers," Sherlock stated.

"Friends," John corrected quickly, "Friends with a mutual interest. We used to give each other mix tapes. Apparently he was tired of me babbling about _The Smiths_, old bugger."

"But you were there when he was killed?" Sherlock asked, looking at John again.

"Yes," John said, his smile fading, "You have to…turn it off and I'll tell you."

Sherlock did, watching as John sat on his bed, close to the detective, and scratched the back of his head. "Where would you like me to begin?"

"When you met Morgan Smith."

"Right," John smiled, "I uh…well, you've probably heard from my mother that I used to go to the city when I was young. I was struggling with my identity back then…still am, to be precise; anyway, before long I came across Morgan's shop and something just clicked. I started going there every weekend, until I finally met Morgan himself. It was, as you may imagine, a liberating experience; to see someone so open and so… confident. I wanted that – the openness, the ability to, well, flirt with whomever I wanted."

"I suppose it was dangerous, believing in Morgan this way. And no, it was not because he had perverse intentions; rather, it is because he believed the reality to be better than it was. At home I lived with a hating father and went to school with people who would have ostracized me for my identity, so I remained hidden and withdrawn; with Morgan I could be myself, so I even agreed to be a part-time model for him, as you probably know."

"He had enemies, of course. His shop window was smashed a couple of times and people left threatening notes on his doorstep; the police looked the other way. There were unhealthy rumors about the shop. He met all this with a smile, and for a while nothing serious happened… he was such an authority to me that I, too, was not concerned. The first time I confronted reality was during that September – in 1991, when a group of youngsters attacked me as I was going home from the shop. They followed me, apparently, and said that it was a message to Morgan; they wanted him out of business."

"I delivered the message, but Morgan seemed to be more concerned about the safety of his customers than about his own. He informed everyone and advised them to come and go in groups, particularly if they were dropping by late in the evening."

"A week later I stayed later than I should have, helping him to clean up and close the shop; he knew that I lived in the suburbs and said that he had a cot for such occasions. I agreed to stay, and we spent about an hour listening to music…There was a knock on the door then, and a young man asked to be let in, he thought someone was following him. Morgan did."

John stopped and Sherlock remained patiently silent.

"It was them," John said finally, "Coming in with cricket bats, wearing hoods and masks. They attacked Morgan first and he shouted at me to go, to use the backdoor. I don't think they intended to kill him…just destroy the shop and scare everyone."

"There was blood on your clothing when you came home."

"One of them managed to get me, there was a short scuffle, but I managed to get away. I did not stop running until I was safely on the train. It was a tough train ride. The next day I woke up to find out that Morgan was killed. It was – and I am forced to be dramatic – earth shattering for me. The only person I knew who was not afraid to speak up was killed. I decided to change; get a girlfriend, join the army – whatever it took. Obviously this included erasing any kind of evidence that revealed my past. I thought I was very thorough."

Sherlock took out John's picture from his pocket and John joined him on the floor to look at it.

"He took it himself," John said, tracing his finger over the contour of the photographer's shadow, "The only picture I have of him."

Sherlock pushed his shoulder against John and the blonde smiled, leaning slightly against the detective.

"He'd laugh, I think," John said, smiling, "Knowing that no matter how hard I tried to run from myself, I still ended up living with a man."

* * *

Well, there you have it. I know that this ending seems a bit cheap, and the only thing I can say in my defense is that I always intended to have this ending. I wanted to write a story about "nothing," about a case that sprang up in Sherlock's imagination because of his obsession with John.

I also tried to politicize the text in order to show how a simple community of homosexuals could be portrayed as "deviant" and dangerous by the rest of the society. We all know about attacks on gay bars and clubs; here is my fictional story about an attack on a shop with an openly gay owner in the early 1990s.

I was anxious that I was offending someone while writing this (after all, I was not writing from John's or Morgan's POV), and if I did so – please forgive me. In my mind Morgan Smith was always a good person; and _Morgan's Goods_ was always a safe haven for gay men of all ages.

Thank you all for reading and reviewing, I can honestly say that the reviews gave me the motivation to go on. I can only hope that you enjoyed reading the story as much as I enjoyed reading your reviews :)


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